


your heart is gold and your hands are cold

by taizi



Series: spring doves [4]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fairy Tale Curses, Fairy Tale Elements, Families of Choice, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Self-Worth Issues, True Love's Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-06 15:16:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18853672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taizi/pseuds/taizi
Summary: “You know so much about everything, Snufkin,” Moomin says, feeling a little awed. “It’s no wonder why you leave us every year. There are amazing things waiting for you out there.”A pause. Snufkin hesitates, which is very unlike him-- he usually says exactly what he’s thinking. Slowly, carefully, he says, “There are amazing things waiting for me here, too. That’s why I always come back.”Moomin lays there looking at him, and feels very warm. Like someone poured a cup of tea into his heart, on just the right side of burning. It’s absurdly comfortable, and Moomin isabsurdlyhappy.Snufkin looks back at him with serious eyes, reaching across the tiny space between them to touch Moomin's face with gentle fingers.“I’ll always come back,” he says, like it’s a promise.





	1. Chapter 1

They’ve had all manner of strange guests in the Moominhouse, but this one is perhaps the strangest so far.

She showed up out of nowhere, drowning in a long traveling cloak that must be three sizes too big, standing there on the front stoop like a great flightless bird. She doesn’t give her name when asked, and doesn’t come inside when Moomin stands back to let her through, and… Moomin isn’t sure what to do after that.

He’s a good host, he likes to think, but he’s never had someone outright refuse his hospitality before. He waffles for a moment, and then turns to his parents for help.

Moominmamma comes to the rescue, ushering the strange creature inside with the kind of self-assurance that comes from so many years of maintaining peace in their very big and disorderly family.

“Well, no name is no reason not to be polite,” Mama says kindly, leading the Guest into the dining room. “Please, come in out of that dreadful weather. We’re just about to sit down for dinner, and we’d love to have you join us.”

The creature _does_ look like she’s seen some hard times. Her clothes are muddy and torn, and her long hair is a frightful mess hanging down her back and over one shoulder, but her eyes are alarmingly bright. As bright as Snufkin’s when the light hits his face just right and reflects back across his pupils.

The Guest’s eyes are bright like that all on their own, a pretty but unsettling blue. It’s a little at odds with the rest of her-- all earthen tones, brown fur and hair and skin and little branch-like antlers sticking out of the top of her head.

She studies them silently, offering nothing, little more than a vaguely person-shaped figure in their house.

But Moomin is a polite child, and has no reason not to set an extra place for her at their table, and introduce himself, and his parents. Moomin thinks maybe she’s just a little frightened, to be among people she doesn’t know.

So Moomin goes on to describe Little My, and Sniff, and Snorkmaiden, all of them at their own houses for the evening, hoping to make her feel more at home. She perks up a little more with every name, so he must be on the right track.

Papa is leaning outside to light the lamp on the porch, in case anyone else might come seeking shelter from the rain, and says, “Ah, Moomin, look who it is.”

His tone is warm and amused, which means it must be someone good. Hopes high, Moomin dashes to the door, and is rewarded right away by the familiar sight of Snufkin coming up the path from the bridge.

“Oh, it’s Snufkin!” Moomin hops in place, and adds for the Guest’s benefit, “You _must_ meet him, he’s my very best friend.”

The creature at the table grins with all her teeth. “I can hardly wait.”

Snufkin never takes off his shoes or his hat when he comes inside, but he makes himself at home in his own way. His expression is fond as he greets the Moomins, as gentle as Moomin has ever seen it, and it’s so wonderful to see him that Moomin can barely stand it, even though he saw him just a few hours ago.

Snufkin’s gaze slides past Moomin and lingers on their guest, pupils dilating in the low light until they’re big and round and swallow up all the brown in his eyes.

“Won’t you introduce yourself to me?” the Guest asks politely.

Snufkin smiles. “Now that would be a foolish thing, wouldn’t it?”

Sometimes people from outside the valley take offense to the short, plain way Snufkin speaks. Moomin tenses a little bit, never in the mood to hear someone call Snufkin rude. He’s actually very kind and thoughtful, and any of Moomin’s friends and neighbors would say the same thing! That’s just how he talks! If he was truly being _rude,_ it would be a spectacle. One can tell the difference right away.

But he needn’t have worried. Their guest looks delighted by the reply, sitting forward in her chair.

“I have the names of all your friends. I could do anything with one of those.”

“You’re a guest in their house,” Snufkin points out, as mild as milk. “They invited you in out of the rain and gave you a warm meal. I’m sure you recognize a favor when it’s owed.”

“Now, Snufkin,” Moominmamma admonishes gently, guiding him to his seat at the dinner table. “If a person needs a place to stay, they can always find it here. Let’s forget this talk of favors and get you something to eat.”

There’s really no arguing with her. Not even Little My will try it, and she’s happy to argue with anyone about anything. Snufkin, who saves all his ire for things like park keepers and public fences, and seems to have a particular soft spot for moomins in general, doesn’t stand a chance.

“Yes, Mama,” he concedes easily, and joins the Guest and Papa at the table without another word.

“Oh, but he’s right,” the Guest sighs. “I could hardly curse any of you after you’ve been so kind.”

“Curse?” Moomin asks, sinking into the seat at Snufkin’s side. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Well, it’s been awhile,” she says with a shrug. “It’s good to keep in practice, don’t you think?”

“That’s true,” Papa agrees. He seems remarkably unbothered. “When one has a hobby, one should polish it at every opportunity. There are a few curses in Grandma’s recipe book, Moomintroll. They come in handy now and then.”

Privately, Moomin thinks that little hedgewitch curses against vegetable mold and fruit flies aren’t quite the same thing as what their guest is talking about. But Snufkin doesn’t speak up, sipping calmly from a teacup as though they’re talking about something as ordinary as the swimming patterns of a new school of fish, so Moomin doesn’t, either.

Instead he leans over, hoping to catch Snufkin’s eye past his bramble-like hair and the wide brim of his floppy hat. It’s so simple for Snufkin to hide, even when they’re sitting right next to each other, but Moomin isn’t deterred so easily! One can’t be, if one wants to get to the heart of things with a strong-willed mumrik. You’d go around in circles all day and nothing would get done.

It’s a tricky line to toe, because Snufkin will get annoyed if he feels bothered, but on the other hand, he needs a lot of convincing to air his worries. Moomin thinks he manages well enough most of the time.

“It’s going to storm all night, Snuf,” he says eagerly. “Mama says it might keep up for a few days! You’ll stay with us, won’t you?”

He’s got about a dozen half-formed pleas and arguments lined up, but tonight’s victory comes easily. Snufkin smiles into his teacup, and his eyes slide sidelong to Moomin’s.

“If it’s no trouble,” he says, which means _yes,_ and Moomin throws his hands up with a glad cheer.

“Oh, wonderful! I’ll tell Mama! She’ll make your favorite rice porridge pies for breakfast in the morning, just you wait and see.”

He hurries into the kitchen to share the good news, hopping from foot to foot. Mama looks up from the dishwater to favor him a gentle smile, wiping the soap suds from her hands.

“Well done, Moomintroll,” she says playfully, and pats him on the cheek. “We’ll take care of that stubborn Snufkin if it’s the last thing we do. Will you take this fresh tea along with you to the table, please?”

Moomin carries the tray back with him carefully, and pauses in the door. Papa has gone-- probably to his office upstairs, to finish work on his latest novel-- and only Snufkin and the stranger are left at the table. Snufkin is sitting very stiffly in his seat, his shoulders squared and his teacup frozen halfway to his mouth, and their guest is laughing quietly at him.

It’s not a very nice laugh. Snufkin usually takes thoughtless remarks in stride, and Moomin has seen him brush off Stinky at his very worst the way a duck brushes water off its back, so Moomin can only imagine what he must have heard to put a look like that on his face.

Bristling, Moomin stomps the rest of the way over and has to work very hard not to slam the tray on the table. Snufkin jumps a bit in surprise at the careless clatter of Mama’s best dishware. The guest doesn’t startle at all.

“Tea,” Moomin announces impolitely. “Please help yourself,” he adds, manners kicking in despite himself. “Snuf, are you finished?”

Snufkin blinks once, as though Moomin has become unfamiliar to him in the last handful of seconds, but right away his expression clears. He scoots away from the table and joins Moomin on the other side, leaving an untouched dinner plate behind.

“Come help me pack up my camp,” he says. Moomin nods quickly, sour mood lightening at the prospect of a little trip with just the two of them.

He remembers the rain as they start toward the door.

“I’ll go get an umbrella,” Moomin says. “Wait for me!”

Moomin hurries out of the room and toward the closet where coats and bags and things are kept. Usually only the guests use it regularly, but Mama keeps useful things in there for the family to borrow at times like this, and he spots the familiar handle of Papa’s big umbrella right away.

He closes the door and turns around, and comes face to face with the Guest.

“This is the most fun I’ve had in days,” she says. He hadn’t heard her coming, even though the floorboards all creak in this spot. She’s leaning against the wall like she’s been there for a long while, which is impossible, since it only took Moomin a few seconds to find the umbrella. In fact, she looks as perfectly still as a statue, not a hair or thread out of place. Her mouth doesn’t even seem to be moving, but that doesn’t discourage her from adding, “Your friend is a bit protective, isn’t he?”

Feeling a bit protective himself, Moomin forgets all about her strangeness and says, “He’s whatever he needs to be! It’s not easy always being on your own, you know.”

She tilts her head at that, some of her perpetual mirth shifting into puzzlement. “Is he always on his own?”

“Well, no,” Moomin admits. “Not _always._ Not when he’s here. But he’s not here all the time.”

“Would you like him to be?” There’s a spark of interest in her eyes now.

That’s a complicated question! Moomin shifts on his feet, looking past her into the room where Snufkin is waiting, and longs to be through with this conversation and running back to him. If she notices his distraction, she doesn’t pay it any mind, waiting implacably for an answer.

So Moomin says, “Of course I would, but it’s impossible. Asking him to stay all the time would be like asking little birds not to fly when their wing feathers grow in. They have to fly. What would a bird be if it didn’t?”

And Snufkin _has_ to travel. He has to see the world and write songs about it and wander until the hunger in his heart is finally satisfied. When he doesn’t-- when he stays longer than he should, because of a storm, or his friends’ pleading, or, on one unfortunate occasion, a twisted knee-- it’s like watching the light go out of him. Moomin hates to see him miserable even more than he hates to see him leave. He hasn’t asked Snufkin to stay with them over the winter in _years._

“A bird is a bird, and a Snufkin is a Snufkin,” Moomin says with all the certainty he can muster. “I’ve figured that out for myself by now.”

The guest looks at him for what feels like a long time. Then she smiles, and it looks more genuine than all the rest of her expressions. “He’s lucky to have a friend like you.”

“Oh, no,” Moomin argues right away. “If anyone’s lucky, it’s me.”

“Moomin?” Snufkin is in the doorway, peering at him. “Who are you talking to?”

The spot where the guest had been standing is empty, which is a dizzying thing to realize, because Moomin had been _looking_ at her up until Snufkin called his name. His friend approaches quickly, a look of concern on his face, and Moomin says, “It’s okay! I was talking to the guest but she must have left when you came.”

Snufkin’s frown deepens. “She left already. I walked her out the door myself.”

Stranger still! “Maybe she used some of that magic of hers to be in two places at once,” he reasons, falling into step with Snufkin.

They head out the front door since it’s right there, and Snufkin tugs it shut behind them as Moomin pops open the umbrella. For a mumrik, Snufkin is surprisingly indifferent about getting wet, but Moomin would really prefer to keep dry; so they cluster under it together and make their way toward the river.

“You didn’t have to walk her out, Snuf, I know the two of you didn’t get along,” Moomin can’t help adding. “If Mama had seen how she was upsetting you, she wouldn’t have let her stay as long as she did anyway.”

“It’s alright,” Snufkin says. Sometimes he says it like a pull-string doll, the words coming out because the shape of them is comforting even when they’re a lie. Moomin thinks of Snufkin’s uneaten dinner and isn’t fooled. “I wanted to have the chance to talk to her anyway.”

“About what?”

“About a deal,” Snufkin says easily. “They like deals, you know. I met one of her sisters on my journey and traded her a song for safe travel.”

Moomin opens his mouth to ask about _that_ story, because it sounds magical and exciting, but he catches himself. “You made a deal with the guest?”

“I only wanted to remind her of what we agreed on. That she’s not to harm anyone in the Moomin family. She and her kin aren’t evil creatures-- they’re not even mean all of the time-- they just don’t see right and wrong in the way that most others do. It would be wrong if she hurt any of you.”

“Any of us,” Moomin corrects by rote, comforted by his friend’s good sense.

Snufkin looks a little surprised for a moment, before it washes away into his usual peaceable smile, and the only sound between them for the rest of the walk is the drumming of the rain on the umbrella, and the grass, and the surface of the river.

Packing up a campsite in the rain isn’t easy work, and Moomin is clumsy at it even on a good day, but between the two of them, they manage. They’re soaked by the time they dump everything on the veranda, and Mama laughs at them in a kindly way as she ushers them back inside.

“Tea and baths before bed, or you’ll catch cold,” she says, lifting Snufkin’s sodden hat off his head. “Leave your wet things out for me and I’ll have them laundered for you in the morning. Go on, scoot.”

They scoot, trailing wet footprints behind them. They take turns cleaning up in the bathroom, and drink sweet tea that’s on just the right side of burning, and pile into Moomin’s bed with an air of accomplishment.

“Porridge pies for breakfast,” Moomin reminds his friend, but the words get swallowed up in a yawn. He whines, embarrassed. “I’m not even tired yet! I want to hear the story about the song you gave away.”

Snufkin laughs quietly from those few inches away, cheek pressed to the pillow, hair a haphazard mess, all ruffled fur and the scent of Moomin’s soap and one of Papa’s nightshirts that is much too big for him.

“I was playing our song as I walked, because it lifts my spirits. A fairy came down from the trees and said she’d been planning a nasty surprise for me, but she liked my music so much, she’d agree to let me go if I gave her the song.”

“Not that one!” Moomin gasps, sitting upright. “You didn’t give her _All Small Beasts Should Have Bows In Their Tails._ Tell me you didn’t!”

“Of course I didn’t,” Snufkin says peacefully, making Moomin feel silly for his upset. “I told her it wasn’t mine to give. I wrote it for you, after all, which makes that true. They can tell when you give them a lie, so one must be careful. She was satisfied when I played her one of the new tunes I was working on for the spring, and let me pass.”

“You know so much about everything, Snufkin,” Moomin says, feeling a little awed. “It’s no wonder why you leave us every year. There are amazing things waiting for you out there.”

A pause. Snufkin hesitates, which is very unlike him-- he usually says exactly what he’s thinking. Slowly, carefully, he says, “There are amazing things waiting for me here, too. That’s why I always come back.”

Moomin lays there looking at him, and feels very warm. Like someone poured a cup of that sweet tea into his heart, on just the right side of burning. It’s absurdly comfortable, and Moomin is _absurdly_ happy.

Snufkin looks back at him with serious eyes, reaching across the tiny space between them to touch Moomin's face with gentle fingers.

“I’ll always come back,” he says, like it’s a promise.

“Of course you will,” Moomin agrees, and wrestles with another yawn.

Snufkin’s serious countenance falls away into that crooked smile Moomin loves so much, and his touch falls away from Moomin’s face. Moomin feels strangely bereft as it goes.

“Goodnight, Moomintroll,” Snufkin whispers fondly.

The room is dark and warm and cozy, and Snufkin is there and smiling so sweetly, and it's an easy matter for Moomin to fall asleep. 

He wakes up in the very early hours of the morning, grey dawn filling his room from the window. The first thing he notices is that the space beside him where Snufkin spent the night is empty. His harmonica is on the nightstand where he left it, but Snufkin himself is gone.

Sleep is still clinging to him with both its hands, so Moomin doesn’t react to his missing friend with panic the way he might have when he was fully aware. Instead he slips out of bed and circles around to the window, hefting himself up onto the ledge and peering out.

The fields are still heavy with morning fog and puddled from last night’s heavy rain, but the faint, pale light of daybreak is enough for Moomin to make out two distinct figures standing by the bridge.

One is the Guest from dinner last night, and one is Moomin’s favorite mumrik, still clad in Papa’s nightshirt. He wonders what on earth they’re doing out there, awake before even the sun has had a chance to stretch.

As if sensing his eyes, the shorter of the two figures turns. He’s much too far away for Moomin to make out his expression, and Moomin’s little window is probably much too far away for Snufkin to see him properly, if at all-- but Snufkin lifts a hand anyway, high above his head, as if to reassure _I'm still here._

Moomin would push open the window to wave back, but Snufkin is already turning away. 

Well, that’s alright. Moomin will sit and wait for him, and they’ll go back to bed together and sleep until breakfast. It’s a good plan, and he sits in the window nook to see it through.

But it’s still very early. And Moomin is very sleepy. And between one blink and the next, he dozes off again.

And Snufkin doesn’t come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :^)


	2. Chapter 2

Snufkin doesn’t like this.

He doesn’t like the word games and trickery, feeling his mettle tested with every syllable that slips out of his mouth. He is a clever snufkin, one has to be to survive on one’s own in the world outside the kind valley, but it’s not as though he sets out every morning to _prove_ it.

And to prove it against the fair folk is a dangerous game. Everyone who knows anything knows that. One only has to look briefly through the book of bedtime tales in the Moominhouse to see the manner of misfortunes that befall any poor souls who unwittingly involve themselves in the business of their Good Neighbors.

If he were a cleverer snufkin than he is, he would have walked away the moment he saw the fairy at the dinner table. It would have been the smartest, the wisest, the safest thing to do.

But how could he, with Moominmamma bustling about to make more tea for the guest, and Moominpappa keeping it company should it want for conversation, and dear old Moomintroll wearing his heart on his chest where anyone could see it.

How could he?

“Leave them be,” Snufkin stressed in hissed under-tones, under the guise of seeing the guest to the door. “Honor the gift of their hospitality. You aren’t to harm them in any way, interfere with them in any way. No one in their family. Are we agreed on that much?”

“What a pushy thing you are!” Her eyes were sharp, searching him, testing his words for weakness. “I don’t care much for all your demands. Dinner by a warm hearth isn’t such a boon that I can forget the half dozen names I learned this evening if I choose not to. Say I come back tomorrow….”

Snufkin wanted to slam shut the door between them, but he knew that would hardly be enough to keep her out.

Instead, he dug his hole a little deeper, feeling it inching up around him like the maw of a patient beast.

“I’ll do you a favor, then,” he said with unending caution, forcefully shoving back the irritablity that might have caused him to be loose-lipped, even though losing his temper and getting into a row would have been the most cathartic thing. “One favor. And in return-- “

“Safety for the Moomins,” the fairy replied. She took delight in the name, rolling it across her tongue like toffee. It was the most danger his friends had ever been in, but there was nothing Snufkin could do about that yet.

If only he’d come to dinner a half hour sooner. He could have convinced Mama and Papa not to let the stranger inside. He knew they would have listened to him, they always did.

“Meet me in the morning,” she decided, interest piqued. “I’ll call for you, and we’ll make a deal.”

And so here he is, clad in Papa’s nightshirt and a pair of woolen socks, hat and smock and boots all left behind because he was summoned straight out of bed with a wave of her hand. The fields lay heavy under clouds of fog, and the sun casts a thin gray light across the sky as it makes up its mind about dawn.

Snufkin feels very much alone. Moomin’s warm bedroom seems years away from him now.

“One favor,” the fairy says with great enthusiasm. Her voice alone is dangerous enough to make Snufkin’s tail twitch. “I thought about this while little creatures like you were having their pleasant dreams. I know exactly what I’d like for you to do. There’s a cave in a forest far from this valley with a tomb all the way inside. In the tomb there is a necklace with a blue gem. The chain is probably rotten or rusted away, but the gem is what I want. Retrieve it for me, and I’ll agree to leave the Moomin family alone.”

It’s a fortunate thing that his wayfaring habits have taught him to be a light sleeper, or Snufkin would have been groggy and careless after being snatched out of bed, and probably would have made a grave mistake. As it is, he squints thoughtfully, wide awake and fast at work feeling out any traps.

“How am I to reach the cave?”

“I’ll make a door for you.”

“When will I be back here?”

Her eyes narrow. “Three days’ time.”

Snufkin feels as though he’s mistakenly wandered across something important, and so he presses on it. “Three days from this one, my friends will come outside and find me right here?”

“Clever little thing.” The fairy prowls around him, and is suddenly a sharper creature than she was before. “Next time we meet, I hope you won’t be so clever. Three days for you, three days for them. They will find you right here at dawn.”

Snufkin is shivering, and hopes she might believe it’s only from the cold. But truly, he is afraid.

He wishes he could run away and leave this behind him, the way he’s always been free to leave things behind him. He wishes he could close his eyes and open them to find all of this was just a dream, and Moomin is sleeping soundly beside him, and he is still safe in the one place where he has always been safe.

But he knows better.

“I’ll do it,” he says. He can feel the words leave him, can feel the weight of a promise forming. It settles on his shoulders with all the weight of a traveling cloak and he shifts beneath it uncomfortably. “When do I leave?”

“Immediately, of course.” Her voice is bright again, and she holds out a cup in one hand and a cloth napkin in the other, though he’s certain she wasn’t holding anything before. The cup is full of a tantalizing amber liquid and whatever is wrapped in the napkin smells like gingerbread, and it reminds Snufkin right away how long it’s been since that tea he had before bed. “To give you strength.”

He almost forgets himself and takes it, it’s such an innocuous offering. His stomach is empty, since he didn’t touch his dinner, and his hand is moving toward the cup before common sense slams its foot down and freezes him mid-motion.

To accept food from a fairy? After all this back and forth and verbal dancing? They would tell stories of his foolishness for ages, and rightly so.

“No, thank you,” he says, and clasps his hands behind his back for good measure.

The fairy’s face bends in a scowl so terrible Snufkin recoils from it. She snarls at him, soundless, and dumps the drink out on the ground. Stalking around to the muddy bank, cloak and hair dragging behind her, she bends and scoops out a cup of river water.

“You will take this,” she seethes. “You will carry it with you every step of the way. If you spill a single drop, you have failed. I will take the names of all your friends, and they will never know this valley again. And then I will return for you.”

Snufkin doesn’t cower, but only because he’s too frightened to move. She stares at him for what could have been a moment or an hour, before she takes a step to the side. Moominpappa’s bridge is visible behind her, half-hidden in the fog.

“The bridge will be your door,” she says coldly. “Cross it once to leave and again to return.”

It’s several long seconds before Snufkin can force his legs to move. When they do, they take him on an arching path that skirts her widely. His fur is standing all on end, and his hair is probably sticking out, too. If his shaking hadn’t given him away before, this much is now.

But she doesn’t speak again, to goad or laugh. She just stands there watching him in silence, as present as the fog.

The cup is waiting for Snufkin at the foot of the bridge, as is the cloth napkin, and he crouches down to take them both. It’s a teacup not unlike the ones in Moominmamma’s cabinet, with a wide lip that bends outward smoothly. Already, just from picking it up, the water inside rocks dangerously close to the rim.

His socks and the tip of his tail and the hem of his borrowed nightshirt are soaked through and muddy. It’s the most inglorious beginning to an adventure he can think of, but he’s in no position to complain.

Snufkin takes a deep breath, and glances over his shoulder. He can barely see the bright blue of Moominhouse in the pale light of pre-dawn, but he knows exactly where Moomin’s window is. He would be able to find it blind, he thinks. It’s the first place he looks to when he returns with the spring, and it’s the last place he looks to now.

Moomin is probably fast asleep, warm in his bed, but Snufkin lifts a hand in farewell anyway. He wishes he could have left a note. He hopes his friend doesn’t worry.

I’ll come back, he vows. And then without any more fuss, he crosses the bridge.

It’s a strange sensation, leaving the fog and dark of the valley and entering a sunny forest within a few steady steps. The moment his foot leaves the aged wood, he’s in another place entirely, and the bridge is a silly misplaced thing, sitting in the middle of a grove of trees.

On an ordinary day, he would be impressed by the show of magic. As it is, Snufkin’s heart is banging against his chest in uncertainty. The fair folk don’t lie outright, and the Guest promised the bridge would take him back, but it’s still an unpleasant feeling to find oneself in the middle of an unfamiliar place without anything but a cup of river water and a particularly keen sense of direction to help you.

But the sun is high in the sky, and the air is sweet, and Snufkin feels lightened by it. Holding the cup carefully in one hand, he peels off his muddy socks and leaves them in a pile by the bridge. And then, with some very precise maneuvering, he gets the knot on the napkin undone, and ties it round his wrist instead. He’s no intention of eating the cakes inside, but it feels like a bad idea to leave them behind or lose them.

The path seems straightforward, and he can make out a crest of trees and an outcropping of rock about a mile away that looks promising. As he walks, he misses his boots, and he misses his harmonica, and he keeps those things in mind because they’re much easier to miss than his friends.

He’s barely made it more than twenty steps before he gains a companion. It’s a perching bird, a bush-robin on the smaller side of tiny, with what looks like a length of green ribbon looped about its breast. It lands on his shoulder as easy as anything and fills his ear with a soft, musical note.

“Well hello, bluetail,” he says, relieved to have a normal conversation at last. “What’s that you’ve got on? Did someone play a nasty trick on you?”

No, it tells him, this is yours. Don’t you remember me?

And he does, a moment later, remember the palm-sized bird whose broken wing he’d set with a twig and a length of cloth torn off the hem of his own smock, just last year. He had carried it with him for three weeks while the wing healed, wrapped in his scarf at first to keep it immobile because it couldn’t be trusted not to flap about, and then letting it ride on his shoulder and his pack when it promised to behave itself.

Snufkin must have traveled these woods before, then, since he’s encountering this creature for the second time. It isn’t the season for migrating, and a bluetail wouldn’t have much reason to venture very far from its home otherwise. Something in his heart settles, and his step is a little lighter than before.

“At least now I know I wasn’t magicked off to some faraway land,” he confides in his old friend. “It’s hard to say, with fairies. And I’m happy to see you back in good health. You kept that piece of smock all this time? You didn’t need to do that.”

I like it, the bird retorts, as contrary as all its fellows. You shouldn’t have given it to me if you didn’t want me to keep it.

And Snufkin can’t very well argue with that. Bluetails aren’t a sociable bird, usually keeping out of the way and hidden under shadow, and in that Snufkin had found a kindred spirit. But one makes an exception every now and again, and no one knows that better than him.

“I’ll be glad to have you along for as long as you’d like to join me,” he says truthfully. “I’m on a quest, and I can’t say how dangerous it may be. Fly away at any time.”

If it’s a quest, you’ll need a bird, the bluetail says. I don’t know why you thought to start a quest without one.

Snufkin laughs despite himself, and feels much better by the time he finally approaches the mouth of the cave. It doesn’t look particularly dangerous, similar to the sea grottos he and Moomin explore together, and he can tell at a glance why the fairy couldn’t get in.

“Very well done,” he says, impressed.

Someone has driven iron nails into the face of the tomb, and wreathes of rowan, ivy and bramble-berry stems guard the entrance. As if in natural accord, lush beds of clovers grow over the footpath, swallowing as much of the ground as they can before stopping at the mouth of the hollow.

It’s perhaps safer from the Good Neighbors than any other place Snufkin has ever seen. Whoever is entombed here must have been either very important or very superstitious.

“Wonder what it would take to get the family to pack up and move in here,” he muses, balancing the cup of water carefully as he leans down to pluck free a clover. He eyes its petals, counts four, and tucks it into his hair for his lack of pockets. “Your last chance to leave, my friend. There won’t be much sky inside.”

The bluetail gives him a look that says he’s not very funny, and Snufkin is smiling as he steps into the cave. It’s cool without being dank, more musty than damp. The hard earth is a far throw from the soft forest floor, less forgiving on his bare paws and littered with sharp rocks just waiting to catch underfoot and throw him off balance.

It’s darker the farther he gets from the mouth of the cave, and the trip would have probably been impossible without his night-eyes. Snufkin feels along the wall to keep steady, and walks more slowly than he would like, to keep the cup in his hand from rocking.

It can’t be too much longer now.

And then he sees it; an ancient door, standing ajar. It feels like stone against his hand, carved intricately by some long-ago craftsman, and Snufkin spares a moment to admire what he can see of it in the pitch black tomb.

It’s no easy thing, pushing it open the rest of the way, but he manages to slip inside with his cup and his companion intact. There is a funerary bed in the corner, dusty and moth-eaten, the person-shaped remains covered by a heavy shroud. Snufkin keeps his eyes respectfully averted, even as he slinks across the room.

“Forgive me,” he says, in case there is anyone lingering to hear him. “I don’t want to take from you, but I must. It’s an old trinket, and it won’t do you any good anymore. I’ll only take the one, and I’ll leave you a cake in its place.”

A trinket! says the bush-robin. This is why I came along, to help find trinkets. Only it’s so dark in here, I can hardly see an inch past my beak.

“You just stay put so I don’t lose you,” Snufkin says sensibly, carrying the cup aloft as though it’s a candle holder as he steps over some fallen stone. “I’ll get the necklace and we’ll be out of here in a minute.”

Along the far wall, there is a shelf of— Snufkin could hardly call them riches. There are some jewels and some bangles, but it appears to be mostly books, years old and brittle with time. Stacks of papers, framed pictures, toys that look like they belonged to a small child. A family, he realizes, left little pieces of themselves behind with whoever they buried here.

A cold pit forms in his stomach when he finds the necklace. He hesitates for a moment, but only a moment. He knows what he came here to do.

When Snufkin picks it up, most of the chain breaks away at once. The gem is cool and solid in his fingers; it seems almost forgiving, a gentle blue thing in this dark, stone room, and Snufkin would like to think this family would absolve him off his theft if they knew it was only to save a family of his own.

“I’ll take good care of it,” he says sincerely. “And now for the trade.”

The bluetail gamely holds onto the gem for him while he works a cake out of the napkin bunched at his wrist with his free hand. He sets the gingerbread where he found the necklace, and the old room already smells a bit sweeter.

It’s done? the bluetail asks when he’s taken the stone back. We’re leaving?

“Right away,” Snufkin assures it, but as he turns to the door he realizes it’s a lie.

There’s a big cat lurking there, covering the only exit. It’s hunched forward, head extended, tail lashing, deceptively still for something that could spring across the room in seconds as soon as it made the decision to eat them. Snufkin has been prey once or twice before in his life, traveling through the wilderness where hungry beasts make their home, but it’s not something one gets used to.

It must have followed us in, he thinks. It must have known it could trap us inside.

“Are you a smart animal?” he asks it, voice wavering only a little. He’s proud of that. “Can you understand me?”

It blinks, night-eyes far superior to Snufkin’s own, and answers _Yes. Most of what I eat doesn’t talk to me, you know._

“I’d like for that not to change,” Snufkin says. His heart is racing, and each breath is a painful pull. He can’t die here. Not with the gem that will save his friends still clutched in his hand. He can’t run, because there’s nowhere to run to, and he can’t fight without spilling the cup of water. “I’m on a quest, you know. An important task was given to me by one of the fair folk. They’re very prickly when their plans are upset.”

The cat displays its teeth in a snarl, to show what it thinks of the fair folk, but it does stop its tail lashing in apparent thoughtfulness. Fairies leave forest creatures alone, for the most part, but no animal likes to be dragged into unnatural plans and plots when there is hunting or foraging or napping to be done instead.

Snufkin bets everything on the intelligent cat’s reluctance to be involved when he goes on, “Perhaps I can offer you something else to let me go on my way?”

 _Perhaps,_ it replies gamely. It gets up to prowl a few steps to the side, all lean muscle, faster and stronger and bigger than Snufkin will ever be. _I smell a bird._

The bluetail is quivering against Snufkin’s shoulder, and he doesn’t have a free hand to comfort it. He tilts his head to brush his cheek against it, and says, “I have one here.”

 _Give me the bird,_ the cat demands. _I’ll eat it and let you go._

Snufkin thinks that even a fool would know that for a lie, but he’s not going to say that to the cat. Instead he does some quick juggling, holding the stone between his teeth and working free one of the gingerbread cakes. It’s about the size of a perching bird, about the same weight, and it should work just fine.

He turns quickly, scooping the bird off his shoulder, and says, “Let me just tie its wings so it can’t fly away.”

What is your plan? the bird demands, apparently knowing snufkins well enough to know he must have one.

“Wrap your piece of cloth around the cake,” Snufkin says in his softest voice, keeping the cat in his line of sight. “If you’ll part with a feather or two, that would help. Quickly now, little one. And then hide beneath my hair.”

It does as it’s bid, glad to finally be of help, and parts with a few blue feathers that it tucks into the cloth.

The cat is far enough away from the door, Snufkin thinks a little desperately, that he might make it. He can pull it closed from the other side. He just needs ten seconds. Ten seconds.

But he can’t run with the cup in his hand. If he spills even a drop, all of this is for naught.

He can’t spill a drop. But she didn’t say he couldn’t _drink_ it.

“Let this not be a mistake,” he whispers, and puts it to his lips. It’s river water, familiar for its mineral tang and the earthy grit it leaves on his tongue, and nothing terrible happens when he downs it.

“Alright,” he says aloud, turning back to face the cat across the room. “I’ll toss it to you. Can you catch it?”

 _Of course I can, you stupid thing,_ the cat snaps back, and even sits down where it is, as if to prove no distance is too far for it to successfully catch a bird-sized snack.

“Here it comes, then,” he calls, and throws the cake just to the left of the cat, just a bit farther from the exit. It lunges for it, snapping it up with powerful jaws, and Snufkin is only two feet from the door when it realizes what it swallowed was not what was promised.

It turns with a snarl that will haunt Snufkin for the rest of the summer, and he flattens himself against the wall, free hand flying up to cup the bird to his throat in a desperate bid to save at least _one thing--_

And then the cat falls with a heavy thump and lies still. It’s still breathing, great chest heaving, but as suddenly as it was going to pounce, it fell into a deep sleep.

What did you feed it? the bluetail asks from behind his hand. Give some to me to feed to the rest of the cats in the woods.

“No,” Snufkin says faintly, “I think it best not to give anymore to anyone.”

He eases through the cracked door, the scrape of the stone against his arms and hands somehow reassuring. He’s alive to feel the roughness, to feel the rocks underfoot that bite into the pads of his paws, to feel the first few fingers of sunlight that reach him from the mouth of the cavern.

Once outside, he sits down in the bed of clovers, draws his knees up to his chest, and cries as quietly as he can.

The bluetail preens his fur with businesslike flips of its beak. It’s a steady presence for something so small, and Snufkin chokes out a thank-you when he has the breath for it.

Don’t thank me, it tells him. I wanted to come along. Everything that happened was part of coming along, wasn’t it? You can’t very well go on an adventure and resent the adventurous things that happen, can you?

Its strange sensibility, and the low, musical pitch of its voice, brings Snufkin slowly back down to earth.

“I’m almost finished,” he says in a hoarse voice. “I’m nearly there.”

So let’s go, the bird replies. I’ll come with you the rest of the way.

“I don’t know when I’ll be able to bring you back here,” Snufkin tells it, surprised by the offer. “It could be a long time-- the end of the year, even.”

I have wings, it says. I can go wherever I want, whenever I please.

Snufkin imagines such a freedom with a wistful heart, even as he draws himself back up to his feet. Cup clutched in one hand, gem clutched in the other, he murmurs, “Wouldn’t that be grand?” and picks his way tiredly back through the wood and toward the bridge that would take him home.

It feels as though the walk back takes much longer. Darkness is falling, shadows sinister where they stretch beneath the trees, but Snufkin is frankly too worn out to be afraid of anything so ordinary.

Moominpappa’s bridge is a sight for sore eyes, even sitting in the middle of this forest where it doesn’t belong, and Snufkin runs the rest of the way to it. There are new tears in his eyes, he’s so _glad_ to be going back. He snatches up the socks he left there, makes sure he has cup and napkin and gem and bird, and crosses through the fairy door a second time.

It’s dawn in Moominvalley, and the fields are all clear and green after days of hard rain. It’s beautiful, it’s wonderful, he’s really come back.

“Aren’t you a sight,” the Guest says from the road, drawing Snufkin’s gaze with a paranoid quickness. “Your cup is empty.”

“I didn’t spill it,” he blurts. “I drank it.”

“Did you?” She looks amused. “And the gem?”

“It’s here.” Snufkin holds it out with a shaking hand. “It’s done. I did as you asked.”

“You did,” the Guest says peacefully. She doesn’t move, eyes colder than any of the jewels in that far-away tomb, and Snufkin is left standing there with one hand out-stretched, an empty teacup in the other, dirty and tired and scratched up and desperate to be rid of an old blue stone.

“Take it,” he says, feeling frayed. “It’s what you wanted.”

“Oh, not yet it isn’t,” comes the reply, and then she slips away from his sight.

Before he can look around for her, or shout, or do anything besides stand there dumbly, he realizes what made her ghost away. There are voices shouting his name, people running down the hill toward him, dear Moomintroll at the head of the pack with open arms and tears in his eyes.

They’re safe, Snufkin thinks with a sense of great accomplishment. And I kept my word.

“Moomin,” he says first, because one should always say the most important things first, and steps the rest of the way off the bridge.

And then his legs are crumpling beneath him, cup and stone spilling from his hands, and the bluetail gives a cry of alarm as he falls. Just like the cat they left in the tomb, but at least the last thing Snufkin gets to see is the sky.


	3. Chapter 3

When Moomin opens his eyes, his cheek is pressed against the windowpane, and the sun is high and bright and poking insistent fingers into his face. He squints through it, and has to work a kink out of his back from the strange position he’d found himself in, and wonders what on earth he’s doing sleeping at the window.

“How’d I end up over here, Snuf?” he asks, turning around.

He’s fully expecting to see his friend somewhere in the room behind him. Perched on the nightstand, or lounging across the foot of the bed, a crooked smile ready for the moment he realizes Moomin is finally awake.

And while his harmonica is there, on the table where he left it the night before, there’s no Snufkin to be found.

The smell of breakfast solves that puzzle quickly enough, and Moomin hurries downstairs. Papa and Sniff and My are all sitting at a table laden with rice porridge pies, and Mama is coming out of the kitchen with fresh coffee. There’s a stack of familiar clothes folded up on the table by the stairs, a floppy hat taking place of pride on top of the pile, but...

“Where’s Snufkin?” Moomin asks.

It’s strange to see this weathered green hat without its owner nearby. Stranger still to be clutching a familiar harmonica in his hand because it was simply _left_ somewhere. Snufkin has so little that he takes very good care of what he does have, and this is--

It’s a very odd morning.

“I don’t know, dear, I haven’t seen him,” Mama says. Her eyes drop from Moomin’s face to the harmonica he’s holding, and then to the laundry by the stairs, and something passes through her expression that he doesn’t quite recognize. She straightens, rubbing her hands clean on her apron, and says, “I’ll check the garden. He can’t have gone very far.”

But he _could_ have gone far. It’s what he does every year, traveling as far as he can in any direction before spring pulls him back to Moominvalley. Sometimes he wants to be left alone and disappears for hours at a time, but it’s never felt like this before. It’s never happened first thing in the morning, and never after a comfortable night together like the one they just had.

If he’d been in need of open space and fresh air, he’d be lounging on the veranda. If he’d decided to take a walk, he certainly would have _dressed_ first. Moomin can’t think of a single thing that would have sent his friend haring off into the early morning with nothing but the borrowed clothes on his back.

He taps the harmonica twice against his palm, the way he’s seen Snufkin do a hundred times, but it doesn’t make him feel any better. He remembers, quite suddenly, what he saw earlier that morning, when dawn was still just an idea and fields were barely visible for all the fog; Snufkin by the bridge, and the Guest standing next to him, and the hand he raised to Moomin’s window.

What was it he had said? _“They like deals, you know.”_

“I’ll check by the river,” Moomin declares, and rushes out without breakfast. He hears a  commotion take place behind him, his little brother squawking in distress and plates being overturned, and then the patter of much smaller feet right on his heels.

“If there’s trouble to be had this early in the morning, I want in,” Little My says with a relish that Moomin doesn’t think is appropriate for the worrisome situation they’re in. He doesn’t waste time turning to argue with her, intent on making it down the hill without slipping in the damp grass, but she continues a beat later on her own, anyway: “It has to do with that fairy Mama and Papa were talking about, doesn’t it?”

Surprised, Moomin glances at her sidelong. “How’d you figure?”

“You’re all too nice. You probably invited it right into the house and introduced yourselves first thing,” My reasons frankly, and the accuracy makes Moomin wince, “but here you all are, whole and hale, not a one of you turned into a mouse or toadstool. Why is that, I wonder.”

It isn’t truly a question, because the answer is obvious. Moomin feels his heart sink to the bottom of his stomach like a stone. “Snufkin said he talked to her after dinner.”

“And there you have it,” Little My says, hopping over a large stone in her way. Her face is set in a scowl that can’t seem to decide if it wants to look more irritated or worried. “If my dumb brother is involved, that makes it my business. Just try and send me away. It wouldn’t work, _and_ I’d cut holes in all your blankets.”

My is a force of nature even when she’s not particularly interested in whatever game they’re playing or adventure they’ve fallen into, so to have her fully invested is more reassuring than Moomin would ever admit out loud.

But despite their best efforts, and Moomin’s extensive knowledge of all of Snufkin’s favorite hiding places, he’s absolutely nowhere to be found. They search high and low until well past lunch, to no avail. Moomin is thinking he might be sick, staring at the empty spot on the riverbank where Snufkin’s fishing gear should be, when a familiar voice drifts over them from Snufkin’s bridge:

“You two are certainly energetic this morning,” says the Guest, lounging on the sun-warmed planks. “Are you looking for something?”

Her bramble-like hair is so long it falls well over the side and into the water next to her dangling feet. She smiles like she did the night before, like it’s an excuse to bare all her teeth, and this time it sends a chill down Moomin’s spine.

She certainly wasn’t sitting there before, because Moomin and My must have trekked over that bridge a dozen times this morning, but she looks so comfortable she could have been there for hours.

My is sizing her up, eyes narrowed. Moomin ventures a step forward uncertainly.

“It’s Snufkin,” Moomin tells her. “He’s disappeared.”

“No he hasn’t,” the Guest says in a cheerful tone. “He’s doing me a favor.”

“So he _did_ deal with you,” Little My says viciously. She glowers at the fairy like she’s trying to set her on fire with a look. “You had better bring him right back. The only person allowed to torment these folks is _me._ ”

The Guest laughs. It’s a very cold sound, even under the bright summer sun, and Little My bristles. Moomin shuffles to the side, so that he’s a step in front of her-- less for her protection, and more because she’s not as likely to attack with a moomin-sized obstacle in her path.

“He’ll be back in three days,” the Guest tells them, all good humor. “It’s just a little errand. Once he finds what I sent him to retrieve and returns with it, you will find him right here at dawn, and I’m to leave the whole Moomin family alone. That was the agreement.”

“Um... so he’s okay?” Moomin asks. He’s fidgeting nervously, turning the harmonica over and over in his hands. “It’s just, he doesn’t even have his boots. Or his overcoat. If you know where he’s gone, maybe I could-- bring those to him?”

“You’d never get there in time,” says the Guest. “I turned the bridge into a magic door, and it will only work twice. If you use it to reach him, I’m afraid you’ll all be stranded hundreds of miles from home, and your snufkin will fail.”

Dread is pouring out of Moomin’s heart like a sieve. He can’t help remembering Snufkin’s fear last night at the dinner table, wasting a whole plate of Mama’s cooking in a manner wholly unlike himself in his eagerness to get away from the Guest-- to get _Moomin_ away from her. How quickly he picked up on this danger that the rest of the family was utterly clueless about, and how quickly he intervened on their behalf.

 _“I’ll always come back,”_ Snufkin had whispered in the warmth and darkness of the bedroom, his fingertips gentle against Moomin’s cheek. It was a farewell, Moomin realizes. Oh, he hadn’t known it was a _farewell._

He wishes he could go back to that moment, and snatch Snufkin up in both arms, and hold onto him so tightly that whatever magic took him away would have had to take them _both._

Moomin can feel his eyes burning. “But is he okay?” he asks in a small voice.

The Guest’s smile fades somewhat as she sits there looking at him. The mirth is gone, replaced by something calculative.

“Would you like to help him?” she says with great interest.

Moomin jerks his head up, surprised. Of course he would!

But Little My suddenly clambers up Moomin’s back to his shoulder, jabbing him with heels and elbows as she goes, and interrupts the conversation with a strength of presence better suited a carthorse than a very small mymble.

“Let’s go back home, Moomin,” she declares with a rude look at the Guest. “We’re done talking.”

“But-- “

“We know when he’s coming back, and that’s all we need to know. Let’s tell the others.”

There’s something very defensive about the way she’s gripping his arm, and by the stubborn set of her chin, he knows this is an argument he’s doomed to lose. With a lingering glance at the Guest, still sitting on the bridge as peaceful and patient as anything, Moomin takes the long way round the river and heads home.

Every step is an aching one. His heart is so heavy it’s a wonder he can move at all.

For the next three days, Mama keeps them close to the house. Normally, Moomin and his friends would chafe under such restriction, but they’re too preoccupied and worried to miss the sunny fields they might have otherwise played in, and it doesn’t feel safe to venture outside anyway.

The Guest is haunting the bridge; every time Moomin wanders to the window to see if she’s still there, she meets his eyes unerringly and lifts her hand in a wave that feels like a mockery of Snufkin’s goodbye, and Moomin has to yank the curtain shut.

On the third night, Snorkmaiden whispers, “I’m certain he’s alright. Snufkin is very clever. I’ll bet that fairy will get more than she bargained for.”

The four of them are sleeping together in the drawing room, a mound of pillows and blankets on the floor serving as their bed. Papa fell asleep in the armchair, and Mama is still awake in the kitchen. There’s only one person missing, and he’ll be back in the morning.

Moomin falls asleep with a hand on Snufkin’s hat, and wakes up to a swift kick in the stomach.

“Wake up!” My shouts, disrupting the stillness of the room with an ease no one else could ever hope to match. “Something is happening by the bridge!”

Everyone is on their feet and out the door in moments. Only Mama and My are wide-awake, as if they’d never gone to sleep, but Moomin is more and more alert with every second. He trips off the last step of the porch in his hurry, heart in his throat and an unbearable heat in his eyes, straining to get a glimpse of--

Yes! He’s there!

Snufkin, in a nightshirt that’s torn and muddied, arms scraped raw, a little blue bird on his shoulder. He’s holding out a gem in one hand as if in offering and clutching an empty teacup in the other like his life depends on it. He’s barefoot and trembling but he’s _home._

Whatever task was set for him, whatever goal, he met it. He came back. Of course he did, he promised he would.

“Snufkin!” Moomin sobs, running like he’s never run before. “Oh, Snufkin!”

The mumrik reacts slowly to the sound of his name, but the smile that fills his face when he sees his friends coming to meet him puts the dawn sky to shame.

“Moomin,” he says, full of love, and then he falls.

Snorkmaiden cries out, it’s such a sudden thing. One moment he’s stepping forward off the bridge, and the next he’s crumpling to the grass like all the life has blown out of him. Moomin is scared, scared, _scared_ as he crashes to his hands and knees at Snufkin’s side, turning him over as carefully as he can through his panic.

“Oh, Snuf, are you alright?”

Snufkin’s hair is hiding his eyes, and Moomin smooths it back with a shaking hand, and….

“Is he-- asleep?” Sniff asks in a tremulous voice, half-hidden behind Mama.

Snufkin’s face, pale and dirty and tear-stained, has gone slack and peaceful. It’s as if they’ve stumbled upon him hours into a lazy afternoon nap. If Moomin hadn’t _seen_ him on his feet just a moment ago, moving and talking and wide-awake, he never would have believed it.

“Wake up, Snufkin,” Moomin insists, giving his shoulders a little shake. Snufkin’s head lolls a bit to the side, cheek pressed to the grass, and his eyes don’t so much as flutter. Moomin looks to his mother in a panic, but My is well past that.

“You broke the deal,” My snaps at the Guest, wasting no time in placing blame. “It must have been you, Snufkin wouldn’t have smiled when he saw us if he’d failed.”

“That’s right,” Snorkmaiden says. She’s kneeling next to Mama, one of Snufkin’s paws clutched tightly in her hands, and although her eyes are bright the way they are before tears, the rest of her face is angry. “What was it you wanted, anyway? Didn’t he bring it, whatever it was?”

“Is this it?” Sniff asks, drawn toward the blue stone that Snufkin only dropped when he collapsed. It’s glinting in the grass, polished surface inviting.

Sniff stoops to pick it up, but a small, feathered projectile propels him back a few startled steps instead. The little bird that arrived on Snufkin’s shoulder unleashes a volley of chirps and shrieks in his face that don’t sound particularly polite and then snatches the stone up by a piece of its broken chain.

“That’s for the best,” the Guest says mildly. She’s leaning against the railing of Snufkin’s bridge with a self-satisfied smile, and looks delighted by everyone’s distress and alarm. “It’s a cursed stone, you see. Everything inside the tomb your friend snuck into is spelled against thieves. The moment he left my door and completed my task, the curse took him.”

Moomin stares at her, speechless with horror. A task like that was doomed from the start!

“Never mind all that,” Mama says suddenly. “Papa, would you bring Snufkin up to the house please? There will be time to worry about curses and cures once he’s been taken care of. Grandmother’s recipe book will have the answer, I’m certain of it. Come along, now.”

And so they go, the little bird flying overhead with the stone and the Guest left behind at the bridge. In short order, Snufkin is cleaned up and carried to bed. Ointment is applied to the scrapes on his arms and his hands, and the cuts on the bottom of his feet are washed out and wrapped up. He’s dressed in another one of Papa’s nightshirts that drowns him and tucked away beneath fresh sheets, and only then does Mama sit back and touch his hair, sadness and care in her eyes.

Snufkin sleeps through all of it, still and unaware. What if he never wakes up, Moomin wants to ask, but he’s terrified of what he might be told.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” comes the voice of the fairy, from right there in the room. They all jump and look round to find her standing just inside the closed door, her head tilted curiously. “You wanted him to stay all the time, if only it wouldn’t make him unhappy. Like this, he isn’t unhappy, and he’ll never leave.”

Moomin thinks it’s awful, how a fairy can take exactly what a person says and make it mean something entirely different.

He isn’t inclined to think anything nice of the Guest anymore, but he admits it is very smart of her to keep an eye on Little My, who would bite a person’s ankle just because they weren’t paying attention. In this case, she might do something much worse and with much less provocation, crouched protectively at the foot of her half-brother’s bed.

“Of course not,” he tells the Guest, hurt. “I’d never want something bad to happen to Snufkin, not for any reason. If there was a way to make this right again, I’d do it. I’d do anything.”

She brightens at that. “Would you?”

Impatient and upset, Moomin opens his mouth to tell her yes, of course he would, who wouldn’t? but he doesn’t get the chance. The bird on the headboard, forgotten until now, gives a mighty screech and catapults itself into Moomin’s face, much like it did Sniff when he tried to touch the gem that Snufkin brought back.

Moomin yelps and stumbles, and the bird rounds on the Guest in turn, remarkably angry for something so small. The Guest waves it away, looking annoyed, and it flutters back to Snufkin’s side with its feathers all puffed out in offense.

“Wise thing,” Papa says approvingly. “Snufkin has gone through a lot to protect us. It would be sorry thanks to undo his hard work just because we weren’t patient in finding another cure.”

Ashamed, Moomin nods. But there’s one thing he still doesn’t understand. He’s not as clever as Snufkin, and nowhere near as calculative as their Guest, but from where he’s sitting, it seems an obvious oversight.

“Stop me before I say something stupid,” he says to the bird, who ruffles its wings as if to say _obviously._ Reassured, he looks at the Guest. “You said-- Snufkin’s deal was to protect our family, right?”

“That’s right.” She looks very interested as he addresses her. Her tone is… not as tricky, somehow. He’s not sure what that means, but it’s the least of his worries now. “Unless we enter into an agreement of our own, you’re all safe from me.”

“What I don’t understand, then, is why you’re still here,” Moomin confesses, trying not to be rude in front of Mama. “If you’re not allowed to mess with us anymore.”

“Because it might be fun to play with the little snufkin some more, if you manage to wake him up again,” the Guest replies brightly.

She’s as excitable as a woodie with a new toy, as if she doesn’t see a single thing wrong with anything she’s done to them up until now. Moomin looks at her, this person-shaped creature with a person-shaped smile, and can’t comprehend a single thing about her.

“But you can’t,” he says, confused. “That was the deal. Snuf does this crazy task for you, and you leave our family alone. You just said it a moment ago, plain as day.”

And the Guest sharpens so suddenly that it causes a ripple of surprise in the room, standing up straight and tall. “He isn’t a Moomin. A bird is a bird-- “

“And a Snufkin is a Snufkin. And he’s my best friend, and I love him more than anything in the whole world. We all love him,” Moomin says simply. It’s the truth, and she should know that if she’s as good at picking out a lie as fairies are supposed to be. “If you need proof, look at what he’s done. He did everything you said, even though it was impossible, even though he must have been scared and lonely, and he did it because he loves us, too. I don’t know a better word for that than family.”

Papa puts a hand on his shoulder, such a look of pride on his face that Moomin ducks his head. Mama tells him, “Very well said, my dear,” and even My looks pleased.

“So that’s that,” she says, meanly delighted. “He’s safe from you, too. Now undo this spell you’ve got him under and go away.”

The Guest is frowning, as though she knows she’s lost but she doesn’t want to admit it just yet. She looks between them all like she’s looking for anything to contradict what Moomin has told her, but of course she doesn’t find it. It’s the truth, after all, and that’s something that doesn’t change no matter how one tries to twist it.

You don’t have to be a moomin to be a part of the Moomin family, Moomin thinks, baffled by the very idea. That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.

“It’s not my spell he’s under,” the Guest finally says. “My business is done here.”

And with that, she’s finally gone.

"Fairies sound so wonderful and magical in stories,” Snorkmaiden says, flushed with frustration. “But in truth, they’re just awful!”

“They’re not awful, dear,” Mama says. She isn’t one to speak poorly of a guest no matter what, but she looks happy to see the last of this one. “They’re just not people, and they can’t be expected to behave as people do. Now, let’s put all this behind us, and wake up our dear Snufkin.”

It’s a relief to cluster around her at the bedside as she opens grandma’s recipe book. She flips through the pages with an air of certainty, so convinced she is that the answer is waiting for them somewhere inside, that Moomin feels his own fears finally begin to fade.

“Ah! Here it is,” she says, scanning a page. “What To Do When a Loved One Has Been Tricked by a Fairy and Cursed by a Stolen Necklace. Let’s see…oh, my, it’s very simple, isn’t it? I should have guessed!” She closes the book and smiles around at them all warmly. “True love’s kiss will do the trick.”

For some reason, all of Moomin’s friends turn to look at him. He blinks back at them from where he’s clutching Snufkin’s hand, nonplussed. Surely they don’t think _he’s_ going to do it.

Moomin loves Snufkin, of course he does, and he’s not secretive about it, either-- but he can’t just _kiss_ him! Not when there are still some days when Snufkin doesn’t want to be touched, and Moomin has to make sure it’s okay before he gives him a hug. Not when there are still some days when Snufkin will shyly ask to hold his hand, as if Moomin’s affection isn’t a complete given. The thought of _kissing_ him without his permission makes Moomin feel ill.

Giving away his first kiss to the person it belongs to is one thing, but doing it while Snufkin can’t say yes or no is another. He opens his mouth to attempt to explain all of this to his friends’ expectant faces, but he doesn’t have to.

“What an easy fix that is!” Papa says. “Here I was worried we’d have to embark on a quest of some sort, and the answer is right here. What else are parents for?”

Mama laughs and agrees, even as she leans over to kiss Snufkin on the forehead. It takes all of three seconds, and it starts to work immediately. Snufkin’s expression shifts, and his eyes drift halfway open, and Mama sits back with a sigh of relief. “There you are, my darling. How do you feel?”

The mumrik blinks once, and then again, as if he doesn’t recognize who they are and where he is. And then his expression crumples, and his eyes well up with tears, and he clutches Moomin’s hand as though he’ll float away without him to hold onto.

“I failed,” he says, sounding so heartbroken it breaks Moomin’s heart for good measure. “I made a mistake. I put you all in terrible danger.”

“You didn’t, Snuf, don’t think that,” Moomin says at once, getting up from his chair and clambering onto the bed with him instead. Any distance at all is too much, after the last three days he’s had. He helps his friend sit up, and holds him close when he leans heavily into Moomin’s side. “The fairy tricked you, that’s all. That stone she sent you after was cursed, and she knew it. She never wanted you to win.”

“The stone?” Snufkin looks down, as if surprised not to find it still clasped in his hand. “Where is it?”

“Your friend took it away before we could touch it,” Sniff says, pointing out the bird on the nightstand. It gives a loud chirp, and hops up Snufkin’s arm to his shoulder, where it settles beneath his ear like it will need a great deal of convincing to go anywhere else.

Snufkin tilts his head to rub his cheek against it while it chatters at him, and Moomin is seized by the sudden and overwhelming thought of how much he _loves_ this snufkin, who can talk to birds and deal with fairies and go on a scary quest to protect his family.

I’ll kiss you someday, Moomin thinks fervently. But not to break a curse or keep a bargain. I’ll kiss you because I love you and no other reason. Someday, when I’m as brave as you, I will.

“If I managed to save you, that’s all I wanted in the first place,” Snufkin is saying slowly. “But Bluetail says I saved myself, too, and I’m not sure what that means.”

“Your deal, dummy,” My says impatiently. “You bartered for the whole family’s safety, and that includes you. I don’t know how you can be clever enough to talk in circles with a fairy but miss something as obvious as _that.”_

And he _did_ miss it, judging from the expression of surprise on his face. He doesn’t seem to know what to say for a moment, plucking at the shirt he’s wearing with nervous fingers. His mouth is wobbling, and his eyes are still wet, and he looks as though he’d like to lay down and go back to sleep until all of this is a distant memory, but instead he squares his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” Snufkin says, absurdly. His voice is awful, trembling and hoarse. “I ruined the shirt Papa lent me,” he goes on. And then he’s curling in on himself and sobbing the way he hasn’t since that day when Moomin barely knew him, when the comet came and dried up the whole sea.

And if Snufkin wants them to believe it’s a shirt he’s crying over, then that’s just fine. Moomin doesn’t let him go for a second, so Papa’s hug envelopes them both snugly, and Mama says, “You’re safe now, dearheart. You’re home.”

After all of this, some things change. 

They still invite strangers in out of the cold. They still play in the fields and make new friends in the woods and go on adventures over the seas and the mountains. Snufkin still leaves for the winter and returns with the spring, with new stories and songs to share, and Moomin still looks at him and thinks _Someday._

But they take care, too. Mama plants a rowan tree by the house, an earnest little sapling that will keep them safe as it grows. Papa spreads the tale across the valley so that no one will be caught unaware if this particular danger comes back again. Sniff, My and Snorkmaiden decorate their front doors with pretty wreaths of ivy and bramble-berry stems, to the mild perplexity of Snork and Mymble, just in case.

And everywhere Snufkin goes, he goes with an iron nail in his pocket, and a four leaf clover in his hair, and a bossy bush-robin only ever a short whistle away. He’s grown up an awful lot since what happened with the Guest, cautious and measured where he used to be reckless and daring, just a little bit slower to smile when a new friend asks his name.

But when he introduces someone to Mama and Papa, he tends to call them “my parents.” And when he shows a traveler the way to the Moominhouse, he tends to call it “my home.” And when he looks at Moomin, he tends to look like he’s thinking about a someday, too.

So Moomin can’t think _all_ of those changes are bad. After all, some of them are wonderful. And the rest are necessary. And someday might even be tomorrow.


End file.
